Dolls, every once in a while, the world's smartest women (i.e., the Ask E. Jean correspondents) run into a rough patch and start to wonder...will this problem kill me? I mean, it is, after all, a possibility: Many a famous intelligent woman has died because of a tiny, uh, snafu.

Would This Problem Kill Marie Antoinette? Dear E. Jean: I'm a 33-year-old college professor—intellectually sophisticated, but emotionally unsophisticated. I've met a man. He's 30, a doctor, and adorable. He's overseas right now, and we're exchanging flirtatious e-mails. However, I recently "bumped into" his profile on a social networking site, and the guy has almost 600 friends! I only have, like, 35. I'm overwhelmed by his popularity and suddenly seized with insecurities. How can I not be discouraged?—Feeling Not So Bright

Miss Bright, you delectable dim bulb : Come on. Was Marie Antoinette discouraged by the flock of fawners and flatterers surrounding her flaccid young hubby, Louis XVI (a twitball, by the by, who required seven years and three months to officially deflower Marie A., one of the most ravishing virgins in Europe)? Was she "insecure" and "overwhelmed" when she arrived in France without a friend to her noble name? Oui. But she rose to the occasion. How? She imported buddies to Versailles—i.e., she made friend requests.

Go to your profile page, click on your 35 friends, then send each of their friends friend requests. Include a witty word about your mutual comrade; or, if you know the person, write a droll note implying that you've thought of nothing but their welfare your entire life.

In about 10 days, you'll possess 703 "friends" or thereabouts; but you're too charming to let such a mob swell your head. I can't quite explain it, but with social-networking sites, after you acquire a certain number of people (around 110), some kind of convivial contagion breaks out and bango!—everybody starts piling on. It's J. D. Salinger's nightmare. But for you? A piece of cake.

Don't go overboard. Exchange beguiling e-mails with the lad, and stay off his page. Seeing other women writing on his wall or seductive remarks in his comments section may cause you to completely lose your head.

Would This Inflame Joan of Arc? Dear E. Jean: I work for a company that I just found out is corrupt. It is using its programs to impose its religious (cultlike) beliefs on underprivileged and impoverished students. And they are government funded. When I questioned the standards of a training video our company produced, the president of the company attacked me and said it was based on "proven" training formulas used by people in this religion. I instantly got a bad feeling in my gut because one of my main duties is to recruit students. This is deceitful! I want to give my two-week notice immediately, but I also want to report this company. How do I go about it?—Furious and Offended

Furious, my firebird : Suck it up, stay put, be smart, and don't change your behavior. Quietly gather evidence that proves the company is defrauding the government, and then give your notice.

This means making copies of e-mails, training manuals, videos, and, if possible, server data and financial reports that show a connection to the sect. Also keep a diary of pertinent events and conversations as they happen. When you have collected proof and transferred it out of the building to a safe place, give your notice. (And if you get caught beforehand, quit immediately.) The day you receive your final paycheck, alert your state's Department of Labor and attorney general about the fraud.

I read your letter to Dylan Blaylock, communications director of the Government Accountability Project, which defends whistle-blowers (GAP represented the scientist who called out the heart-attack-causing drug Vioxx, for instance), and he wants to caution you to think seriously before you take any steps. Mr. Blaylock says:

"Society needs people of courage and conscience like this young woman, people who are privy to the most sensitive information, to step forward; on the other hand, it may affect her future career. So she must deeply consider the possible ramifications."

It's up to you; but if Joan of Arc could clap on the armor, rout the English at Orléans, and turn the tide of an entire war before her eighteenth birthday, you can crush the scam artists who are using Auntie Eeee's tax dollars to delude poor children. Send your evidence to the attorney general anonymously. That way, you won't get burned at the stake.

Would This Poison Cleopatra? Dear E. Jean: I'm happily married with two young children, a wonderful husband, the white picket fence, and everything good—except my mooch-in-law. She's my husband's sister, and she's a slob! She totaled her car and replaced it with one she couldn't afford. To ease her financial burden, she now crashes on our couch, and I mean crashes! Her things are everywhere, her laundry (which smells of pot smoke!) sits in the middle of my living room, she consumes this planet's resources like mad with hours of hot water and hair dryer use, and she hurts my husband's feelings when she ignores our little girls. She has a job at a deli but is living here rent-free.

Fed, my darling : Reconnoiter where Miss Death Star is hovering. The bathroom? The couch? Tell her the enchanting "spa vacation" in your house is over, grab her by the left ear, haul her out the door, and pitch her poisonous posterior into her expensive car. Call your husband and let him know that his "little sister" is moving in with friends. She won't make a scene, I promise. Why?

Because it will be very hard for her to start yelling when you warn her that you're "thinking" of informing "the various authorities" that her pernicious pot habit is causing "health problems" for your "innocent toddlers." Your husband will be guiltily happy you got rid of the plague (especially when you tell him you've nipped stalker girl in the bud).

Which brings us to Cleopatra. She married her brothers, Ptolemy XIII and Ptolemy XIV, and, therefore, being her own sister-in-law, she wouldn't have had the slightest problem telling little sis to kiss her royal asp.

Would This Befuddle the Brontë Sisters?
Dear E. Jean: I'm 24 and would love to build my vocabulary and learn all that "grammar stuff" I should have soaked up in middle school. How can I be sharper?—Needin' More Learnin'

Learnin', my luv : In the spirit of the tiny geniuses—Anne, Emily, and Charlotte—who knew so many words that their heads weighed more than their bodies...do crosswords, throw black-tie Scrabble parties, read Jane Eyre, get Urban Dictionary's "Word of the Day" by e-mail, listen to Wuthering Heights on your iPod, write new words with your refrigerator magnets, and keep a word diary to record what happens when you employ your new vocab. For example, "'Oh, Muffy,' I said over cocktails, 'your aphotic fimbriated skirt looks so recusant!' whereupon Muffy snorted precisionistically, discharging her margarita through her proboscis."

But the easiest way to explode your vocabulary (instantly!) is to fill your rice bowl on quiz site Freerice.com. For each word you define correctly, 20 grains of rice are donated, via the United Nations, to help feed the world's hungry. By God, you'll know so many words after 10 minutes, you'll have to let your brain out a notch. (And your heart, too. You are, after all, filling empty stomachs.)

Would This Piss Off Catherine the Great? Dear E. Jean: It has been less than two months since we came home from our honeymoon, and my husband is refusing to have sex because—and it took me weeks to find this out—I made a comment in front of his family, joking about him "not doing squat around the house." (He brought up the topic, but I digress.) We had planned to have children soon (we are both 38), but now I'm wondering if I want to be married to someone who holds secret, petty grudges and plays games with such an important relationship—Thought I Married a Man, Not a '50s Housewife

Going, my great dame : What asses men are! That said, tell him you're sorry. He's raw. He's stupefied. He thought marriage was one long Super Bowl weekend, and suddenly he finds out he's expected to father children and take out the garbage. Yes, he's immature; and yes, you must tame him. But here's the rule: Never argue with a man about chores. It kills eroticism. Hire an impecunious (thanks, Freerice.com) college student to swab out your place twice a week, and explode a few champagne corks. Marriage is supposed to be fun. Forgive and move on. And if he doesn't wise up? Do what Cathy the Great did to her hub, Czar Peter III: Chuck him in the clink, and then swear you had nothing to do with it when he croaks.